I do not own Ratched.
I do not own my angel boy Huck. But I love him.
Huck Finnigan Lives Again: A Ratched Fairytale
A Hero's Reward
He's in too much pain to be ashamed of his scars as Nurse Bucket, another witness to Huck's roundhouse knockout of a verbally abusive, insolent orderly, . . .
". . . bleeding, you foolish, precious boy . . ."
. . . fairly wrestles him out of his sea-green, sea-sickening uniform button-up shirt.
"-thinking, oh that must've hurt something fierce . . ."
Which does not help his pain the least . . .
". . . poor thing . . ."
. . . bit.
As he sits on the dining seating under the bay window in the kitchen in his sleeveless white undershirt.
Slightly less white now that his bullet healing shoulder is drooling blood onto it.
"-cold compress please, Grace?"
And Huck realizes that she has followed them in.
Grace.
"- him just on my account, you precious thing. You know what thick skin I have-"
And is silently taking in the entire situation.
"-Ratched would have positively boiled him alive for such insolence, oh I can only imagine, can't you just-"
Whilst attending to his shoulder with the directed cold compress.
"-knew I made the right choice promoting you to Head Nurse, oh Huck-"
And gazing silently at him with her own dazzling blue-green-green-blue eyes.
" -hero, so valiant, you dear boy, I'll find you some morphine to help dull the pain-"
Whilst managing somehow to reply to . . .
"Bayer powder will be fine, I think, Nurse Bucket. Thank you."
. . . Betsy Bucket's verbal onslaught . . .
"Oh, whatever you need, dear boy, whatever you need . . ."
. . . as well.
And then she's hurried off, all aflutter and aflit.
And Huck . . .
"Thank you for the compress."
. . . tries to remember through the pain . . .
"You're welcome."
. . . how to be gentlemanly . . .
"Thank you for punching him."
. . . like he should.
He huffs an almost smile.
Which fades just as quickly into a sincere expression.
"I just . . . I just couldn't have him speaking like that of you. Of anybody."
She smiles gently, all red lips and demure eyes.
And he can't really think to speak.
"I don't mean for you to always be taking care of me."
Except he does.
"I usually don't need so much looking-after."
And she . . .
"Everybody needs looking-after from time to time."
. . . does.
"It's what people are supposed to do. Look after each other."
And her eyes are beautiful, he can't look away from them.
Voice so soft and warm, like she'd be kind to kittens.
Perfume sweet and light and flowery.
And her hand, pressed firmly on the cold cloth over his shoulder has painted red nails.
And he wonders if the red of those lips and the red of those nails will ever not remind him of blood.
But oh she is so lovely and fresh and innocent and kind.
And she doesn't seem to be drawing away from his half-melted face, the blind, staring white eye. The mottled skin of his neck.
She doesn't seem to mind at all.
She just seems to see him.
And he doesn't know who slowly leans in first, him or her.
Or maybe them both together, two minds of a similar thought and feeling.
And he's gazing into her eyes, so dazzling and unique.
Glancing down at that mouth that maybe won't always look like blood to him.
And she's gazing into his eyes and she doesn't seem to mind how terribly forward he's being.
And her lips are so soft, so warm on his as they touch.
Her lips.
The soft brush of the warm skin surrounding her mouth.
Light point of her nose fitting perfectly close to his, her chin.
And it feels so good and right, that simple kiss.
And he could stay in it indefinitely-
"-thing for you, Huck, Bayer Powder just like you said, oh have I said how much I respect a man that doesn't abuse pharmaceuticals to dull his senses-"
And the daydream is gone.
Replaced by the harsh and jarring chattering return of the well-meaning, bustling Betsey Bucket and her packet . . .
". . . water for you, dear boy, oh, Grace, how is that shoulder looking-"
. . . of Bayer Powder.
"It's, uh, it's stopped bleeding."
"-ful, oh I'd hate to set you back in your recovery just because that loudmouthed fool needed to be taught a lesson-"
And Huck turns his head back to Grace.
Who's turning her face back to him.
And he thinks . . .
"Thank you for your help, Grace."
"You're welcome, Huck."
. . . that she really is so very lovely.
God bless Betsey Bucket, she's trying, isn't she? ;)
Thanks to DinahRay for reviewing the last chapter! I appreciate that.
